Alger Horatio Jr.
Phil, the Fiddler
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME OF THE BOYS
It was a quarter-past eleven when Phil and Giacomo entered the shabby brick house which they called home, for want of a better. From fifteen to twenty of their companions had already arrived, and the padrone was occupied in receiving their several contributions. The apartment was a mean one, miserably furnished, but seemed befitting the principal occupant, whose dark face was marked by an expression of greed, and alternately showed satisfaction or disappointment as the contents of the boys’ pockets were satisfactory or otherwise. Those who had done badly were set apart for punishment.
He looked up as the two boys entered.
“Well, Filippo,” he said, harshly, “how much have you got?”
Phil handed over his earnings. They were up to the required limit, but the padrone looked only half satisfied.
“Is that all you have?” he asked, suspiciously.
“It is all, signore.”
“You have not done well this afternoon, then. When I met you at twelve o’clock you had more than a dollar.”
“It was because a good signora gave me fifty cents.”
The padrone, still suspicious, plunging his hands into Phil’s pockets, but in vain. He could not find another penny.
“Take off your shoes and stockings,” he said, still unsatisfied.
Phil obediently removed his shoes and stockings, but no money was found concealed, as the padrone half suspected. Sometimes these poor boys, beset by a natural temptation, secrete a portion of their daily earnings. Whenever they are detected, woe betide them. The padrone makes an example of them, inflicting a cruel punishment, in order to deter other boys from imitating them.
Having discovered nothing, he took Phil’s violin, and proceeded to Giacomo.
“Now for you,” he said.
Giacomo handed over his money. The padrone was surprised in turn, but his surprise was of a different nature. He had expected to find him deficient, knowing that he was less enterprising than Phil. He was glad to get more money than he expected, but a little disappointed that he had no good excuse for beating him; for he had one of those hard, cruel natures that delight in inflicting pain and anguish upon others.
“Take care that you do as well to-morrow,” he said. “Go and get your supper.”
One of the larger boys was distributing bread and cheese to the hungry boys. Nearly all ate as if famished, plain and uninviting as was the supper, for they had been many hours without food. But Phil, who, as we know, had eaten a good supper at Mrs. Hoffman’s, felt very little appetite. He slyly gave his bread to one of the boys, who, on account of the small sum he brought home, had been sentenced to go without. But the sharp eyes of the padrone, which, despite his occupation, managed to see all that was going on, detected this action, and he became suspicious that Phil had bought supper out of his earnings.
“Why did you give your bread to Giuseppe?” he demanded.
“Because I was not hungry,” answered Phil.
“Why were you not hungry? Did you buy some supper?”
“No, signore.”
“Then you should be hungry.”
“A kind lady gave me some supper.”
“How did it happen?”
“I knew her son. His name is Paolo. He asked me to go home with him. Then he gave me a good supper.”
“How long were you there? You might have been playing and brought me some more money,” said the padrone, who, with characteristic meanness, grudged the young fiddler time to eat the meal that cost him nothing.
“It was not long, signore.”
“You can eat what is given you, but you must not waste too much time.”
A boy entered next, who showed by his hesitating manner that he did not anticipate a good reception. The padrone, accustomed to judge by appearances, instantly divined this.
“Well, Ludovico,” he said, sharply, “what do you bring me?”
“Pardon, padrone,” said Ludovico, producing a small sum of money.
“I could not help it.”
“Seventy-five cents,” repeated the padrone, indignantly. “You have been idle, you little wretch!”
“No, padrone. Indeed, I did my best. The people would not give me money.”
“Where did you go?”
“I was in Brooklyn.”
“You have spent some of the money.”
“No, padrone.”
“You have been idle, then. No supper to-night. Pietro, my stick!”
Pietro was one of the older boys. He was ugly physically, and his disposition corresponded with his appearance. He could have few good traits, or he would not have possessed the confidence of the padrone. He was an efficient assistant of the latter, and co-operated with him in oppressing the other boys. Indeed, he was a nephew of the padrone’s, and for this reason, as well as his similarity of disposition, he was treated with unusual indulgence. Whenever the padrone felt suspicious of any of the boys, he usually sent them out in company with Pietro, who acted as a spy, faithfully reporting all that happened to his principal.
Pietro responded with alacrity to the command of the padrone, and produced a stout stick, which he handed to his uncle.
“Now strip off your jacket,” said the padrone, harshly.
“Spare me, padrone! Do not beat me! It was not my fault,” said the unhappy Ludovico, imploringly.
“Take off your jacket!” repeated the padrone, pitilessly.
One look of that hard face might have taught Ludovico, even if he had not witnessed the punishment so often inflicted on other boys, that there was no hope for him.
“Help him, Pietro,” said the padrone.
Pietro seized Ludovico’s jacket, and pulled it off roughly. Then he drew off the ragged shirt which the boy wore underneath, and his bare back was exposed to view.
“Hold him, Pietro!”
In Pietro’s firm grasp, the boy was unable to stir. The padrone whirled the stick aloft, and brought it down upon the naked flesh, leaving behind a fearful wheal.
Ludovico shrieked aloud, and again implored mercy, but in vain, for the stick descended again and again.
Meanwhile the other boys looked on, helpless to interfere. The more selfish were glad that they had escaped, though not at all sure but it would be their turn next evening. There were others who felt a passive sympathy for their unlucky comrade. Others were filled with indignation at the padrone, knowing how cruel and unjust were his exactions. Among these was Phil. Possessed of a warm and sympathetic heart, he never witnessed these cruel punishments without feeling that he would like to see the padrone suffering such pain as he inflicted upon others.
“If I were only a man,” he often thought, “I would wrench the stick from his hand, and give him a chance to feel it.”
But he knew too well the danger of permitting his real sentiments to be reflected in his face. It would only bring upon him a share of the same punishment, without benefiting those who were unfortunate enough to receive it.
When Ludovico’s punishment was ended, he was permitted to go to bed, but without his supper. Nor was his the only case. Five other boys were subjected to the same punishment. The stick had no want of exercise on that evening. Here were nearly forty boys, subjected to excessive fatigue, privation, and brutal treatment daily, on account of the greed of one man. The hours that should been given in part to instruction, and partly to such recreation as the youthful heart craves, were devoted to a pursuit that did nothing to prepare them for the duties of life. And this white slavery—for it merits no better name—is permitted by the law of two great nations. Italy is in fault in suffering this traffic in her children of tender years, and America is guilty as well in not interfering, as she might, at all events, to abridge the long hours of labor required of these boys, and forcing their cruel guardians to give them some instruction.
One by one the boys straggled in. By midnight all had returned, and the boys were permitted to retire to their beds, which were poor enough. This, however, was the least of their troubles. Sound are the slumbers of young however hard the couch on which it rests, especially when, as with all the young Italian boys, the day has been one of fatigue.
CHAPTER VIII
A COLD DAY
The events thus far recorded in the life of our young hero took place on a day toward the middle of October, when the temperature was sufficiently mild to produce no particular discomfort in those exposed to it. We advance our story two months, and behold Phil setting out for his day’s wandering on a morning in December, when the keen blasts swept through the streets, sending a shiver through the frames even of those who were well protected. How much more, then, must it be felt by the young street musician, who, with the exception of a woolen tippet, wore nothing more or warmer than in the warmer months! Yet, Phil, with his natural vigorous frame, was better able to bear the rigor of the winter weather than some of his comrades, as Giacomo, to whom the long hours spent in the streets were laden with suffering and misery.
The two boys went about together when they dared to do so, though the padrone objected, but for what reason it did not seem manifest, unless because he suspected that two would plan something prejudicial to his interests. Phil, who was generally more successful than Giacomo, often made up his smaller comrade’s deficiencies by giving him a portion of his own gains.
It was a raw day. Only those who felt absolutely obliged to be out were to be seen in the streets; but among these were our two little fiddlers. Whatever might be the weather, they were compelled to expose themselves to its severity. However the boys might suffer, they must bring home the usual amount. But at eleven o’clock the prospects seemed rather discouraging. They had but twenty-five cents between them, nor would anyone stop to listen to their playing.
“I wish it were night, Filippo,” said Giacomo, shivering with cold.
“So do I, Giacomo. Are you very cold?”
“Yes,” said the little boy, his teeth chattering. “I wish I were back in Italy. It is never so cold there.”
“No, Giacomo; you are right. But I would not mind the cold so much, if I had a warm overcoat like that boy,” pointing out a boy clad in a thick overcoat, and a fur cap drawn over his ears, while his hands were snugly incased in warm gloves.
He, too, looked at the two fiddlers, and he could not help noticing how cold they looked.
“Look here, you little chaps, are you cold? You look as if you had just come from Greenland.”
“Yes,” said Phil. “We are cold.”
“Your hands look red enough. Here is an old pair of gloves for one of you. I wish I had another pair. They are not very thick, but they are better than none.”
He drew a pair of worsted gloves from his pocket, and handed them to Phil.
“Thank you,” said Phil; but having received them, he gave them to Giacomo.
“You are colder than I am, Giacomo,” he said. “Take them.”
“But you are cold, too, Filippo.”
“I will put my hands in my pockets. Don’t mind me.”
Of course this conversation took place in Italian; for, though Phil had learned considerable English, Giacomo understood but a few words of it.
The gloves afforded some protection, but still both boys were very cold. They were in Brooklyn, having crossed the ferry in the morning. They had wandered to a part not closely built up, where they were less sheltered, and experienced greater discomfort.
“Can’t we go in somewhere and get warm? pleaded Giacomo.
“Here is a grocery store. We will go in there.”
Phil opened the door and entered. The shopkeeper, a peevish-looking man, with lightish hair, stood behind the counter weighing out a pound of tea for a customer.
“What do you want here, you little vagabonds?” he exclaimed, harshly, as he saw the two boys enter.
“We are cold,” said Phil. “May we stand by your stove and get warm?”
“Do you think I provide a fire for all the vagabonds in the city?” said the grocer, with a brutal disregard of their evident suffering.
Phil hesitated, not knowing whether he was ordered out or not.
“Clear out of my store, I say!” said the grocer, harshly. “I don’t want you in here. Do you understand?”
At this moment a gentleman of prepossessing appearance entered the store. He heard the grocer’s last words, and their inhumanity made him indignant.
“What do these boys want, Mr. Perkins?” he said.
“They want to spend their time in my shop. I have no room for such vagabonds.”
“We are cold,” said Phil. “We only want to warm ourselves by the fire.”
“I don’t want you here,” said the grocer, irritably.
“Mr. Perkins,” said the gentleman, sharply, “have you no humanity? What harm can it do you to let these poor boys get warm by your fire? It will cost you nothing; it will not diminish your personal comfort; yet you drive them out into the cold.”
The grocer began to perceive that he was on the wrong tack. The gentleman who addressed him was a regular and profitable customer, and he did not like to incur his ill will, which would entail loss.
“They can stay, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said, with an ill grace, “since you ask it.”
“I do not ask it. I will not accept, as a personal favor, what you should have granted from a motive of humanity, more especially as, after this exhibition of your spirit, I shall not trade here any longer.”
By this time the grocer perceived that he had made a mistake.
“I hope you will reconsider that, Mr. Pomeroy,” he said, abjectly. “The fact is, I had no objections to the boys warming themselves, but they are mostly thieves, and I could not keep my eyes on them all the time.”
“I think you are mistaken. They don’t look like thieves. Did you ever have anything stolen by one of this class of boys?”
“Not that I know of,” said the grocer, hesitatingly; “but it is likely they would steal if they got a chance.”
“We have no right to say that of anyone without good cause.”
“We never steal,” said Phil, indignantly; for he understood what was said.
“Of course he says so,” sneered the grocer. “Come and warm yourselves, if you want to.”
The boys accepted this grudging invitation, and drew near the stove. They spread out their hands, and returning warmth proved very grateful to them.
“Have you been out long?” asked the gentleman who had interceded in their behalf, also drawing near the stove.
“Since eight, signore.”
“Do you live in Brooklyn?”
“No; in New York.”
“And do you go out every day?”
“Si, signore.”
“How long since you came from Italy?”
“A year.”
“Would you like to go back?”
“He would,” said Phil, pointing to his companion. “I would like to stay here, if I had a good home.”
“What kind of a home have you? With whom do you live?”
“With the padrone.”
“I suppose that means your guardian?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil.
“Is he kind to you?”
“He beats us if we do not bring home enough money.”
“Your lot is a hard one. What makes you stay with him? Don’t the boys ever run away?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does the padrone do in that case?”
“He tries to find them.”
“And if he does—what then?”
“He beats them for a long time.”
“Evidently your padrone is a brute. Why don’t you complain to the police?”
Phil shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He evidently thought the suggestion an impracticable one. These boys are wont to regard the padrone as above all law. His power seems to them absolute, and they never dream of any interference. And, indeed, there is some reason for their cherishing this opinion. However brutal his treatment, I know of no case where the law has stepped in to rescue the young victim. This is partly, no doubt, because the boys, few of whom can speak the English language, do not know their rights, and seldom complain to outsiders—never to the authorities. Probably, in some cases, the treatment is less brutal than I have depicted; but from the best information I can obtain from trustworthy sources, I fear that the reality, if anything, exceeds the picture I have drawn.
“I think I should enjoy giving your padrone a horsewhipping,” said the gentleman, impetuously. “Can such things be permitted in the nineteenth century?”
“I have no doubt the little rascals deserve all they get,” said the grocer, who would probably have found in the Italian padrone a congenial spirit.
Mr. Pomeroy deigned no reply to this remark.
“Well, boys,” he said, consulting his watch, “I must leave you. Here are twenty-five cents for each of you. I have one piece of advice for you. If your padrone beats you badly, run away from him. I would if I were in your place.”
“Addio, signore,” said the two boys.
“I suppose that means ‘good-by.’ Well, good-by, and better luck.”
CHAPTER IX
PIETRO THE SPY
Though from motives of policy the grocer had permitted the boys to warm themselves by his fire, he felt only the more incensed against them on this account, and when Mr. Pomeroy had gone determined to get rid of them.
“Haven’t you got warm yet?” he asked. “I can’t have you in my way all day.”
“We will go,” said Phil. “Come, Giacomo.”
He did not thank the grocer, knowing how grudgingly permission had been given.
So they went out again into the chill air, but they had got thoroughly warmed, and were better able to bear it.
“Where shall we go, Filippo?” asked the younger boy.
“We will go back to New York. It is not so cold there.”
Giacomo unhesitatingly assented to whatever Phil proposed. He was not self-reliant, like our hero, but always liked to have someone to lean upon.
They made their way back to Fulton Ferry in a leisurely manner, stopping here and there to play; but it was a bad day for business. The cold was such that no one stopped to give them anything, except that one young man dropped ten cents in Phil’s hand as he hurried by, on his way home.
At length they reached the ferry. The passengers were not so many in number as usual. The cabin was so warm and comfortable that they remained on board for two or three trips, playing each time. In this way they obtained about thirty cents more. They would have remained longer, but that one of the deck hands asked, “How many times are you going across for two cents?” and this made them think it prudent to go.
When six o’clock came Giacomo asked Phil, who acted as treasurer, how much money they had.
“Two dollars,” answered Phil.
“That is only one dollar for each.”
“Yes, Giacomo.”
“Then we shall be beaten,” said the little boy, with a sigh.
“I am afraid so.”
“And get no supper.”
“Yes,” said Phil; “unless,” he added, “we get some supper now.”
“With this money?” asked Giacomo, startled at the boldness of the suggestion.
“Yes; we shall be beaten at any rate. It will be no worse for us if we get some supper.”
“Will you buy some bread?”
“No,” said Phil, daringly. “I am going to buy some meat.”
“What will the padrone say?”
“I shall not tell the padrone.”
“Do you think he will find out?”
“No. Besides, we ought to have some supper after walking about all day.”
Evidently Phil had begun to think, and the essential injustice of laboring without proper compensation had impressed his youthful mind. Giacomo was more timid. He had not advanced as far as Phil, nor was he as daring. But I have already said that he was guided in a great measure by Phil, and so it proved in this case.
Phil, having made up his mind, set about carrying his plan into execution. Only a block distant was a cheap restaurant, where plates of meat were supplied to a poor class of customers at ten cents per plate.
“Let us go in here,” he said.
Giacomo followed, but not without trepidation. He knew that what they were about to do would be a heinous crime in the eyes of the padrone. Even Phil had never ventured upon such direct rebellion before. But Mr. Pomeroy’s suggestion that he should run away was beginning to bear fruit in his mind. He had not come to that yet, but he might. Why should he not earn money for his own benefit, as well as for the padrone? True, he was bound to the latter by a legal contract entered into by his father, but Phil, without knowing much about law, had an indistinct idea that the contract was a one-sided one, and was wholly for the advantage of the other party. The tyrant is always in danger of losing his hold upon the victim when the latter begins to think.
They entered the restaurant, and sat down at a table.
The tables were greasy. The floor was strewed with sawdust. The waiters were dirty, and the entire establishment was neither neat nor inviting. But it was democratic. No customers were sent away because they were unfashionably attired. The only requisite was money enough to defray their bills. Nevertheless Giacomo felt a little in awe even of the dirty waiters. His frugal meals were usually bought at the baker’s shop, and eaten standing in the street. Sitting down at a table, even though it was greasy, seemed a degree of luxury to which he was not entitled. But Phil more easily adapted himself to circumstances. He knew that he had as much right there as any other customer.
Presently a waiter presented himself.
“Have you ordered?” he asked.
“Give me some roast beef,” said Phil. “What will you have, Giacomo?”
“The same as you, Filippo,” said Giacomo, in Italian.
“What’s that?” asked the waiter, thinking he had named some dish.
“He will have some roast beef, too. Will you have some coffee, Giacomo?”
“If you have it,” answered the smaller boy.
So Phil gave the double order, and very soon the coffee and meat were placed before them. I suspect that few of my readers would have regarded these articles with any relish. One need not be fastidious to find fault with the dark-hued beverage, which was only a poor imitation of coffee, and the dark fragments of meat, which might have been horseflesh so far as appearance went. But to the two Italian boys it was indeed a feast. The coffee, which was hot, warmed their stomachs, and seemed to them like nectar, while the meat was as palatable as the epicure finds his choicest dishes. While eating, even Giacomo forgot that he was engaged in something unlawful, and his face was lighted up with rare satisfaction.
“It is good,” said Phil, briefly, as he laid down his knife and fork, after disposing of the last morsel upon his plate.
“I wish I could have such a supper every day,” said Giacomo.
“I will when I am a man,” said Phil.
“I don’t think I shall ever be a man,” said Giacomo, shaking his head.
“Why not?” asked Phil, regarding him with surprise.
“I do not think I shall live.”
“What makes you think so, Giacomo?” said Phil, startled.
“I am not strong, Filippo,” said the little boy, “I think I get weaker every day. I long so much to go back to Italy. If I could see my mother once more, I would be willing to die then.”
“You must not think of such things, Giacomo,” said Phil, who, like most healthy boys, did not like to think of death. “You will get strong when summer comes. The weather is bad now, of course.”
“I don’t think I shall, Filippo. Do you remember Matteo?”
“Yes, I remember him.”
Matteo was a comrade who had died six months before. He was a young boy, about the size and age of Giacomo.
“I dreamed of him last night, Filippo. He held out his hand to me.”
“Well?”
“I think I am going to die, like him.”
“Don’t be foolish, Giacomo,” said Phil. But, though he said this, even he was startled by what Giacomo had told him. He was ignorant, and the ignorant are prone to superstition; so he felt uncomfortable, but did not like to acknowledge it.
“You must not think of this, Giacomo,” he said. “You will be an old man some day.”
“That’s for you, Filippo. It isn’t for me,” said the little boy.
“Come, let us go,” said Phil, desirous of dropping the subject.
He went up to the desk, and paid for both, the sum of thirty cents.
“Now, come,” he said.
Giacomo followed him out, and they turned down the street, feeling refreshed by the supper they had eaten. But unfortunately they had been observed. As they left the restaurant, they attracted the attention of Pietro, whom chance had brought thither at an unfortunate time. His sinister face lighted up with joy as he realized the discovery he had made. But he wished to make sure that it was as he supposed. They might have gone in only to play and sing.
He crossed the street, unobserved by Phil and Giacomo, and entered the restaurant.
“Were my two brothers here?” he asked, assuming relationship.
“Two boys with fiddles?”
“Yes; they just went out.”
“Did they get supper?”
“Yes; they had some roast beef and coffee.”
“Thank you,” said Pietro, and he left the restaurant with his suspicions confirmed.
“I shall tell the padrone,” he said to himself.
“They will feel the stick to-night.”
